A Runaway Bride For The Highlander. Elisabeth Hobbes
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were thickset of body and florid of complexion and stood staring at the gathered men belligerently, occasionally whispering with their red heads together. Ewan recognised Duncan by sight, but they had never spoken. Duncan was reputed to have a quick mind that his cousin was entirely lacking. Ewan realised from the sharp intake of breath from beside him that Angus had also seen them. Angus began muttering threats under his breath.
‘Now’s not the time,’ Ewan said, placing his hand on Angus’s arm, even as his fingers itched surprisingly to curl into a fist. ‘We’re all here for peace and to decide the future of Scotland.’
‘Aye, though the future would be brighter without a McCrieff in it.’
The gap between cousins widened to admit a third person to the party. The figure that appeared between the two men was small, female and dressed in grey. She was none other than Ewan’s ghost.
His heart clenched.
She’s real.
Perhaps he had spoken aloud because Angus was staring him with an expression of amusement.
‘Pretty little piece, isn’t she?’
‘Do you know who she is?’ Ewan asked. Still pale, still looking wary, but more beautiful in the warm glow of firelight than she had been in the low dusk sunlight. He watched as she dipped a graceful curtsy to the McCrieff men. Duncan loomed over the woman, his thick frame and height serving to make her look small and fragile beside him.
‘The Frenchwoman?’ Angus leered at Ewan. ‘Don’t get any ideas about her. She’s the poor young lassie who is to become Duncan McCrieff’s second wife next week.’
A pit opened beneath Ewan’s feet. His stomach lurched with revulsion and, he was startled to notice, jealousy as Duncan took her hand and bowed deeply over it, lifting it to his lips. Ewan bit his in response, fighting the intense urge to be in Duncan’s place.
So she was French. That explained her slightly unusual manner of dress and told Ewan something else. Following the custom of her country, wearing white indicated she was in mourning. Well, she was not alone in that, with barely a single person not grieving for someone lost at Flodden.
‘A Frenchwoman,’ he muttered. ‘McCrieff’s last wife was English. Why he can’t marry a good Scottish woman is beyond me.’
‘Mayhap no good family wants to let their daughters breed with him,’ Angus sneered.
Ewan grimaced. The girl looked barely past childhood. The image of Duncan’s stocky frame heaving itself on top of the slender girl in white soured the wine in Ewan’s belly. A woman as beautiful as she should be cherished. He would treasure her, if she were his. He could not guess for whom she grieved, but any woman about to marry a McCrieff would have plenty to mourn in the future.
* * *
Marguerite Vallon slipped into the Great Hall. Keeping her head bowed, she walked rapidly through the groups that filled the whole space and made her way towards her future husband. No one had noticed her late arrival. These Scottish men were too busy drinking or shouting—and in many cases doing both simultaneously—to pay attention to one small woman.
She was out of breath from running back to the gateway. Her heart pounded from the exercise, coupled with the agitation from having been seen passing through the gate. Tonight it had been too close for comfort. Duncan did not ask how she spent her days, presumably believing she sat in attendance on Queen Margaret, sewing and reading with the other ladies of the court. If he knew what she really did with her time he would doubtless be furious with her.
On her second day in Stirling Marguerite had discovered the small gate that was unaccountably unguarded. Ever since she had been using it as a way in and out of the grounds without being seen. She had become complacent, however. Now the castle was busier she would have to be careful. She did not want to have to explain to anyone what she was doing.
She caught a glimpse of red hair and made her way towards it. Duncan was standing with his cousin Donald, a man as pleasant in manner as Marguerite’s fiancé. He was less handsome, but younger, and whenever Marguerite saw them together it made her want to weep that she was to marry a man who was almost twice her age.
‘Good evening, messieurs.’
Duncan gave her a charming smile, lifting her hand to his lips. Donald bowed, made an excuse and left them alone.
‘I was beginning to wonder where you were. We have all been gathered here for some time now.’
‘I was in the chapel,’ she replied.
It was not a lie. She had stood frozen in fear while the tall stranger had stared at her open-mouthed, as if she was more alarming to him than he was to her. Thank goodness his attention had been called away by his bellowing friend. As soon as he had looked away Marguerite had slipped into the Chapel Royal through the open door while he was distracted.
She shivered in memory of the way the man in the courtyard had looked at her. The expression of open interest when he had looked at her had caused hot prickles around her neck and between her breasts. The flush threatened to renew itself now. It was as though he had never seen a woman before.
He might be one of those men from the distant wilds that women of the French court had spoken of in horrified whispers whenever they discussed the uncivilised country where Marguerite was condemned to make her home. According to them, Scottish Highlanders who lived alone where there were no women took sheep as wives. It was dreadful enough to think a man had such base urges at all, but to consider he might satisfy them in such a disgusting manner made Marguerite flush scarlet and feel physically sick. She hoped she would not encounter the man from the courtyard again.
Although she had wept when her father told her she was to marry a man of thirty-five, she was thankful that Duncan, with his deep blue velvet doublet and close cut hose, seemed to possess an air of sophistication that would not be out of place in the French court.
She realised Duncan was speaking and she had not been paying attention.
‘I’m sorry, I was thinking of the peace of the chapel and my mind wandered.’
This was closer to a lie and she felt her cheeks grow warm. Duncan smiled again, though with a touch less warmth, Marguerite noticed. He bent over her, tall enough that she had to tilt her head back to see into his face.
‘I said that to prefer prayer over a feast seems overly devout in one so young. You should stay close to me now we are here. We will be eating before long.’
She nodded meekly and looked down demurely. She had no appetite to speak of.
She looked away and as she did her eye fell on a figure that was standing at the other side of the room. Her breath caught, her ears began to buzz and she felt as though she might faint. It was the man from the courtyard and he was staring right at her.
Their eyes met briefly. His flickered in recognition and the muscles at the side of his mouth twitched. She thought he was going to smile, but his expression remained solemn. His brows knitted. He crossed his arms across his chest and tilted his head to one side slightly, regarding her with only a little less curiosity than he had in the courtyard. Her cheeks grew hot again and a faint fluttering in her belly spread out through her torso. It felt as though he was slowly drawing his fingers across the inside of her ribs in a caress that reached to her heart itself. She looked away, dropping her eyes down demurely and hoping that would be the end of it.
* * *
Duncan spent the greater part of the meal talking to Donald, who sat at her other side, and Marguerite was left in peace. She tried to muster enthusiasm for the dripping trenchers of roast venison and beef and platters of goose and pigeon that passed before her. She sighed, craving the freshness of delicate white asparagus with lemon sauce, or the gigot of lamb with red and black peppercorns that had been her favourite dish at home rather than yet another night of greasy meat lacking in sauce or spice.
When she had eaten as much as she could stomach, she spent her time looking